


How to Fill the Spaces that You Left Behind

by threadofgrace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadofgrace/pseuds/threadofgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events of Head Space, by Ameliacareful- Dean's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Head Space](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603620) by [ameliacareful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful). 



> I know I've never posted in this fandom before, but I actually have a lot of half finished Supernatural fiction.
> 
> Like, a LOT.
> 
> So, having been totally inspired by the completely excellent "Head Space," by Ameliacareful, and the challenge she extends to write it from Dean's point of view, I'm trying a different tactic. I'm posting it as a WIP. If you like it, hound me to keep updating. I'm really gonna try to see this one through, I swear it.

There's this thing he used to do for Sammy sometimes, back when they were both much younger. Back before Sam hit puberty, got sullen, and stopped admitting to any sign of weakness in front of his big brother. He doubts his brother even remembers it, honestly. 

During the first years they spent on the run, when Sam was an overly earnest toddler, he'd constantly have trouble sleeping. A probably expected reaction to the dark realities of the world they had found themselves inhabiting, Dean thinks when he looks back on it. All of the flotsam and jetsam of their early years as hunters: the violence and the sudden poverty, the twin experiences of constantly being uprooted, only to then go into a holding pattern for days at a time, waiting for John to stumble back to their rooms, covered in wounds or whisky, it was only natural that all of that nastiness began seeping into the edges of the kid's mind, long before he could even begin to learn how to cope with it all. (In his more fatalistic moments, he thinks that maybe demon blood was not the only kind of darkness to get its hooks in Sam from an early age.) But as a kid, Dean wasn't any near so philosophical. His responsibility, his whole world at that age, was bound up in taking care of his little brother. And when said little brother screamed himself awake on a semi-regular basis, it hurt Dean twice over, not only because he felt for his brother, but because every middle of the night cry was a tacit reproach on Dean for failing in his duties. 

As Sam got a little older, the nightmares showed no signs of abating, so Sam began to try a new tactic. Just flatly refusing to go to sleep. He'd huddle for hours under the blankets, in a tight compact ball, determining rubbing small fists in his eyes to keep them open. Dean would try everything to get him uncurl and relax and calm down and just freaking sleep already, wouldya Sammy! Reassurance only earned him tears. Hugs and cajoling didn't work. Threats got him worst than nowhere. When he once threatened to withhold dessert for a week, Sam just looked wounded and sad (that look sure started early) and Dean somehow found himself promising him an extra bowl of Lucky Charms in the morning. Inevitably, Dean would just end up waiting up with him, until he finally passed out from sheer exhaustion. But Sam was a stubborn little shit, even then, and he could often hold out for hours. 

Finally Dean hit upon the idea of telling Sam stories to make him fall asleep. It was something that he thought he remembered his mom doing for him. He had hazy memories, of a soothing hand on his back and a soothing voice in his ear. It was the kind of thing mothers did, he vaguely understood, so it took him some time to realize that it could also be something that brothers did for each other. So, he tried it one night. Sam had been been dwarfed in the full size motel bed they were sharing, and he had been crying in the way that little boys do when they are exhausted and furious, hopelessly and helplessly. Dean simply parked himself right behind Sam, and started rubbing his back in what he thought was probably the appropriate way. 

And then he just started talking, quietly. He didn't really know many good stories offhand, but he was already learning how to improvise. So, he started spinning something silly and harmless. A story about a talking bear in the mountains and his adventures. He talks and he invents. Its the bare bones test run of the kind of freewheeling b.s. style that Dean would prefect in years come. But that night, Sam was listening, Dean could tell. And bit by bit, almost muscle by muscle, he began to feel Sam relaxing into something that was almost like sleep.

Dean mostly kept his night-time storytelling routine in reserve. A last resort kind of option, for when he was desperate or Sammy was feeling sick or sad. Without Dean having to tell him, Sam somehow instinctively knew not to ask for it on your average bedtime. As if he understood that some routines loose power with repetition. And some stories work best when you are vulnerable enough to let them in.

 

Dean thinks about that now, as he watches Sam laying still in the bed, and waits for him to wake up. How many years have past since he last put Sam to bed with a story? Sam is a hell of a lot bigger these days, but for some reason that Dean can't quite put his finger on, at the moment he looks just as young and vulnerable as he ever did.


	2. Chapter 2

There had been a witch. A goddamn witch in a goddamn, midsize, middle of the road SUV.

Things had been quiet for too long at the bunker and Dean was starting to get itchy, so Sam had dutifully found them a lead on a case over in Minnesota. The drive over in the Impala had felt a little bit like getting back to basics. No complications, no bullshit and nothing left unsaid, just lurking in the silences to rip them away from each other. Just the two of them and the car, comfortably bitching at each other as the miles passed them by. Both of them in the easy groove of patterns that had been honed over decades. During a particularly deserted stretch, he put on a Zep IV cassette and started singing as loud as he could, but slightly off-key so as to be as annoying as possible. Sam had rolled his eyes so hard that Dean had to pause briefly and ask him whether or not he was afraid he was going to break something if he kept doing that, which only made Sam roll them harder. 

The case had even been straightforward, if a little gross. Deaths by spontaneous combustion. Try telling local law enforcement that yes, this is actually a thing that can happen, and you get nowhere. And yet, how else do you explain individual people randomly imploding in the middle of crowds, with no one getting hurt on either side of them? They had clashed hard with the sheriff, who was intent on making it out to be a terrorism case, despite the fact that he had yet to identify a suspect, a motive, or even how it was done. Dressed in his FBI duds, Dean had tried explaining to him that no, smart bombs ain't THAT smart yet. 

The irony of the whole thing was that it actually sort of was terrorism, just not the kind that the sheriff would be able to handle. Dean and Sam had tracked down a middle aged single mother, who had just been fired and was doing everything she could to keep it all together for herself and her kids. It had looked like she had turned to witchcraft at first out of desperation. A way to get a leg up in a system that was dead-set against her. But it had gotten out of hand. (Of course it had gotten out of hand. It always, always gets out of hand. Has no watched a goddamn movie before?) She had started using her new found powers to punish the people for her getting such a raw deal in life. Her old boss got the whammy, as did an ex-boyfriend and a neighbor she had feuded with. And the list went on and on. 

Sam had felt for her, he could tell, because Sam has always been a sucker for a hard luck story and is certainly sympathetic with making bad choices along the way. But then Sam surprised him. In the past there would have been a vicious argument about the right way to go, which would have resulted in one of them going in kamikaze style and turning everything into a damned mess. This new Sam sighed, and seemed to sink into himself a little bit, but flatly agreed to do whatever needed to be done to stop her. They had cased her house until they finally saw her leave with her daughter, a chubby toddler in a brightly colored hat. Then they had broken in and methodically destroyed her grimoire, and everything else they could find that seemed even vaguely like a witchy accessory, from candles to kitchen spices. Finally, they waited quietly for her to come home, each with iron in their hands. 

It had all gone quickly pear shaped. The plan had been for Sam to get the kid safely away, while Dean did, whatever ended up being needed. The witch got as far as putting her key in the lock before pausing for a long breath. They listened intently. All was still, until it abruptly wasn't. In a burst of red sparks and wood, the door blew backwards, catching Dean squarely in the forehead and toppling him over. He forced it off of him and then struggled to his feet, his vision swimming. Sam was out the door, blocking the path of the car as it tried to leave the driveway. Dean watched it all happen like he was seeing it through a staticky television. Sam had lowered his iron. He was trying to talk to her through the open window, trying make himself as unthreatening as possible. He saw her reach down to grab something from under the dash and tried to open his mouth to warn Sam. Too late. She flicked something in his direction (a powder? an herb?) and Sam fell backwards onto the lawn and was still. Too still. Too still and too late. He ran to his brother, momentarily forgetting about the car peeling out of the driveway.


	3. Chapter 3

There is this thing he used to do for Sammy, back when they were both a lot younger.

 

 

Shit. Why does he keep thinking about that?

 

 

Its getting late and Dean is sitting and drinking and watching his brother, who is currently lying on the bed in their motel room, unnaturally still.

 

They’ve both gotten way too used to this part over the years, waiting for the other one to wake up from an injury. Dean is an old hand at keeping watch over his brother. He knows what things to look for, and what Sam will be like as he comes out of it. Normally there is a set of mostly un-definable factors that allow Dean to differentiate an unconscious Sam from a sleeping Sam, or, well a dead Sam.

 

Right now, Sam somehow looks like none of the above and all three at the same time.

  
Cas has mostly been so quiet sitting at Dean’s side that Dean keeps forgetting that he’s there at all. Periodically though, he goes to Sam’s bedside to place a clinical finger to his forehead, searching inwardly for some kind of sign that Dean isn’t too clear on.

 

 

 

Cas had been off investigating for him all evening. He had started off by checking in periodically, each time with progressively worse news.

 

_Yes, it was in fact a curse she had hit Sam with. (Which, yeah, Dean hadn’t really needed help to figure that one out.)_

_No, Cas couldn’t say what kind of curse it was. Not, with certainty._

_But he had ideas?_

_Just a guess really. But he shouldn’t speculate… Well, if Dean insisted._

_The witch had been leaving, running away. And she hadn’t wanted anyone to see where she went. There are certain curses that would help with that. Curses that bind the senses, and leave the victim helpless and cut off, unable to follow, unable to track. Easy to cast, but hard to get rid of. How hard? Well, he had never heard of anyone getting rid of one._

_So Sam is gonna be…blind?_

_Perhaps. And deaf maybe, too. At least._

_No Dean, he couldn’t say when Sam would wake up._

 

_B_ _ut he will wake up?_

_In a manner of speaking, in some way or another, probably._

_… the fuck is that supposed to mean?_

_It’s a strange business for humans, the act of being awake._

_No, Dean, he couldn’t cure Sam. But they’d find a way._

_No Dean, it almost certainly won’t wear off on its own, it’s not likely with these kinds of curses._

_No Dean, he had no leads on the witch. They had absolutely no way to trace her, for now at least._

_No, Dean, he couldn’t help._

_No, Dean, there was nothing that anyone could do._

_No, Dean._

_No._

 

 

As the night wore on, Dean had begun to drink faster, taking long, deep swigs straight from the bottle, in order to avoid saying things to Cas that that they would regret later.

 

 

 

 

Sam wakes up sometime around 2 in the morning, just as Dean is beginning to droop forward in his chair.

 

It’s a small set of noises: a twitch of the head that sends Sam's long hair rasping against the scratchy pillowcase, and a slow inhalation of breath. Dean and Cas are by the bed in seconds.

 

Sam’s eyes open and Dean chokes out his brother’s name in relief.

 

But there is no response from the bed. No acknowledgement that either Dean or Cas is there. Sam’s eyes don’t seem to be able to focus on anything either.

 

When had he grabbed Sam’s hand? Dean is holding on to it now, and looking desperately for any kind of reaction in his brother’s face.

 

Sam says, “What the fuck?” clearly and loudly and it’s the best thing he’s heard in a long time. He squeezes Sam’s hand hard, tries to communicate this fact back to his brother.

 

He reaches over Sam’s body, searching for his other hand and thinking vaguely that he can double his avenues for communication that way. The movement is awkward, and in the process Sam gets yanked a little sideways and upwards towards the headboard.

  
“Dean, don’t,” Cas says. But Sam’s mouth has already fallen open in a long, painful pant of expelled air and he’s moaning softly.

 

Dean drops both hands. Then, after a moment, he risks a light hand against Sam’s jawline, and waits to feel the tension subside underneath his palm. Sam gradually quiets.

 

Dean looks up at Cas, who is staring down at Sam, grimly.


End file.
